


You're Different

by Tjerra14



Series: The Broken, The Whole [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Beginning Friendship, Elements of Horror, F/M, Fluff, Haven (Dragon Age), I had this sitting around way too long, Nightmares, No Spoilers, One Shot, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - The Threat Remains, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Champions of the Just, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tjerra14/pseuds/Tjerra14
Summary: After waking violently from a nightmare, Imira finds she has ruined the letter she was working on. Cullen, who feels at fault, offers his help.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Series: The Broken, The Whole [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708717
Kudos: 10





	You're Different

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a document titled "Imira/Cullen fluff" sitting on my main hard drive (and at least two other drives, because I am totally not horrified by the prospect of losing data) and it's a neglected collection of rough drafts of scenes like this one: interactions between Cullen and Imira throughout the progression of their relationship, usually written as a way to break writer's block.  
> Originally, I wanted to include them in a longer fic, but I never found a premise that would logically link them with each other, so I decided to either just let them stew there a little longer, or turn some of those scenes into one shots. This one's the first one to fall victim to that decision.

* * *

I see you

Washing over me across the sky

Overcoming

Projected

On my eyes eternally

I find you in the night

Starset, _Telescope_

**Haven, 9:41 Dragon**

Her chambers were still dark when Imira opened her eyes, but the pale grey of the sky she could see through a gap in the curtains already heralded the dawn. Soon it would turn into blue and pink and red, painted with burning edges, and finally orange, yellow, blinding light. A new day.

At the creaking of the door, she turned around, wondering who would visit her this early, without announcing themselves. Or maybe they had, and it had been the knock that woke her? Flickering light cast by the torches in the hallway entered through the gap, followed by a figure cloaked in night. The door closed.

She recognised him by the way he moved, expansive, almost reckless, unusual for a templar; and his scent, smoky wood and leather, clinging to the air as he passed her to open the curtains.

“Good morning to you, too, Aidan.”

Against the brightening sky, the darkness obscuring his features seemed to deepen.

“You know, if someone sees you sneaking around like that, at this hour, I’ll never hear the end of it,” she sighed and got up. “We said down in the armoury, at sunrise.”

Aidan remained silent.

“Alright, I guess I’m a bit late,” admitted Imira, pulling a shirt over her head. “And I bet the gossips appreciate you saving them from starvation, as well. Just imagine the stories! The righteous young templar seduced by the sly mage, oh, will his poor soul ever be free again of her spells?”

When he failed to answer, Imira sighed again. “So, what did I do to deserve the silent treatment?” 

“I shouldn’t have to tell you,” he said, finally. “You left us. You left me.”

The rising sun basked him in fire.

Out of the shadows, she saw his face had turned to ash. His cheeks were wet from blood and tears and his molten eyes, and as he smiled, his charred skin cracked open to reveal the blisters underneath. 

“Imira,” he said softly, taking a step closer. Flaps of skin fell from his outstretched hands.

She flinched. This wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. The Aidan she knew, grew up with, _left behind_ , had eyes as bright as daylight, a smile as warm as a summer’s day, capable of bringing beauty even to the bleakest night. And above all, he was _whole_.

“You’re…no,” she stammered. “No. You can’t be. You’re not real.”

The gaping hole that’d been his mouth widened.

“Am I not? Are we not, Imira?”

Behind him, emerging from the sunlight, from the flames, were all the others: the ones they’d found in the Circle Tower, afterwards. The ones that’d lined their way through the Hinterlands. And, too many to count, the ones at the Temple, gazing at the Breach, watching and waiting for justice. They were watching her now, too, empty eyes following her every move as she backed away from Aidan’s reaching arms, lipless grins mocking her as her back pressed against the wall, and their shrivelled tongues whispering, chanting—

“Imira. Imira. _Imira._ ”

His hand was heavy on her shoulder, pulling her closer, towards him, towards the others, towards the flames that’d suddenly erupted around them—

“Imira!”

She jerked upright, trying to shake off his fingers. Glass shattered. Her elbow got caught on something soft and _groaning_.

“Oompf.”

Her awakening had left him doubled over and clutching at his stomach, but at the sight of her shock, Cullen put on a pained smile.

“Quite a punch you’ve got there,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Are you always that defensive when you wake up?”

Embarrassment crept up on Imira to slow her racing heart as she looked around to find she’d fallen asleep at her desk. Waking up, she’d toppled over and broken the inkwell, drowning the tabletop in a glistening puddle.

“I, uh…didn’t sleep very well.”

_I never do._

Cullen cast her a concerned look. “Bad dream?”

“Kind of,” she mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “It’s…it’s alright, though.”

Ink was smeared over her hands and forearm, sticky and wet and black; and in that darkness, she found Aidan staring back at her, seeing, unseeing, _you left me_ , her nightmare clinging to her even awake. _Just a dream_ , she told herself, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. _Focus on the present._

The letter.

Or what was left of it. The parchment had drunk eagerly from the ink before she could fish it out of the puddle, reducing it to a soaking wet rag dangling limply from her fingers. She would have to do it all over again.

It wasn’t a cheerful prospect. Writing didn’t come easy to her. In fact, it felt like a fight she couldn’t win no matter how hard she tried. Every letter was a blade biting deeply into her back, wielded by a sneering Orlesian, laughing at her inadequacy, “This is the Herald? What gutter did they find her in, she’s not even literate!”

Cullen must’ve seen the reluctance on her face. “Maybe you can still save—”

“No,” she interrupted him, sighing. “It’s probably better that way. I doubt it was legible.”

For a moment, he didn’t seem to know what to make of her words. His mouth stood half-open in protest, at least she assumed it was protest, polite as he was, and underneath his frown, his eyes darted back and forth between her and the ruined letter in her hands.

“You can’t write,” he finally said, realising.

A part of her, the one that had given up long ago, resigned to suffer the truth, wanted to nod, defeated and in shame. He was right. Wasn’t the purpose of writing so that others could read?

Another screamed in outrage, _I’m trying, I’m trying, I’ve always tried_ , and it was the one that added a sharp edge to her answer: “I can. Others just can’t seem to read it.”

She expected his eyes to light up in mockery, his nose twitching as he snorted with derisive laughter, like so many others had done before. Instead, he examined her intently. His gaze was understanding, warm, caring, even; and as his brow smoothened, he said, “It’s that letter Josephine made you write, isn’t it? The one to the templars? Would you…would you like me to help you with it?”

Imira stared at him, stunned. Was this his way of making fun of her? He had a reputation, after all. And yet, his offer had sounded so genuine…

“You don’t have to—"

“It’s nothing, really. Especially since it’s essentially my fault. It’s only fair I make up for it.”

His tone left little room for discussion and she swallowed her protest. _Just this once_ , she thought as he sat down in her stead and dried up the ink before picking a fresh, untainted piece of parchment from the pile at one side of the desk. _Next time I’ll take better care not to let him see me like this._

It wasn’t his place. It wasn’t her place, either. He was the Commander of the Inquisition, the head of their army, and she was…somebody. They’d given her a title, and privileges, and responsibilities, none of which she wanted nor deserved, and if anything, they were equals, at best. The first time she’d seen him, all armoured up in the back room of the Chantry, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, an image of strength and power, she’d assumed he was the man the others would defer to, who would ultimately decide her fate. He’d radiated a quiet confidence that marked him as a leader, but she’d soon found he didn’t see himself that way. He led their army, true, but the Inquisition was more than that. Far more.

Still, he had no obligation to follow her; she had no right to order him around. Or let him do her work as if he was some kind of servant.

She didn’t understand why he’d offered his help in the first place. They were little more than strangers.

“Something wrong?”

His hand had stopped mid-sentence and as he looked up, she realised she’d been staring at him like he was a dusty curiosity someone had stored in a basement and forgotten about. Some old statue maybe, come to life again, waking her from nightmares, writing her letters, raising his eyebrows at her hastily muttered “no”.

“There _is_ something wrong, though,” Cullen continued, putting down the quill.

_Curiosities,_ she thought, _you’d expect a statue not to care._

“What is it? You know, I could give you some of the templar officers, if you’d like. They might not want to hear you out, or those puffed-up nobles—if they’ll even humour you—but one of their own—”

“Why are you helping me?” The words had spilled from her mouth before she could help it.

He paused, looking confused. “I—I want us to succeed.”

Imira sighed. No matter who she’d asked that question, Josephine, Leliana, Cassandra, even Varric or that Qunari mercenary, Iron Bull, their answer had always been the same, more or less: “I want to help you with closing that hole in the sky.”

And—maybe with the exception of Varric, but even with him she couldn’t be quite sure—every time she knew they had their own agenda, hopes and futures they just happened to secure through her, with her. Cullen, however, had never spoken of any plans he’d had until the Breach tore them apart and from what he’d said he had nothing to go back to. So why did he care? What was he trying to gain?

“You do know I’m a mage, right?”

“It’s quite hard to overlook, lately,” he snorted. “So, that’s what this is about? Me helping you despite you being a mage?”

The whispers down in the tavern, when the soldiers gathered for a drink by nightfall: the templars in one corner, the mages huddled together in another, barely separated by the other recruits trying to ignore the underlying tension. In between them, Imira, her face hidden behind a mug, the obtrusive hair concealed beneath a hood, listening, watching, searching for familiar faces, voices, names.

Instead she’d heard of Iron Bull’s nightly exploits in more detail she’d ever cared to know, spine-crawling tales of Lady Nightingale only consolidating her decision to be careful around her, and the mages—they whispered of Commander Cullen Rutherford, and Kirkwall…

“Do you know what they say about you?”

“Considering some of the mage recruits refuse to speak to me unless ordered to, I can imagine.” Cullen shrugged. “Honestly, I can’t fault them for it.”

The first time she’d heard those stories she couldn’t believe them. She’d known he’d been a templar most of his life, and back in Ostwick, they’d heard of Kirkwall. Someone had told her he’d been there. _He’d known._ Still, he’d always been polite, friendly even, intent on helping whenever he could.

Of course, some of it might’ve been the drink talking, but even a drunk teller’s imagination knew certain bounds. Why, then, did a mage-hater like him seem so amiable? Why didn’t his friendly demeanour alarm her as Leliana’s did?

“You’re different, though,” she blurted out, prompting him to chuckle. “No, let me explain. They say—they say you’re some kind of fanatic, oppressing mages, how you made their lives miserable back in Kirkwall, how you condoned—” The words became entangled in her throat and she fell silent. He couldn’t have. He _mustn’t_.

Cullen smiled.

“Abuse,” he said softly, and she bit back the urge to ask him, even though she sensed she wouldn’t like the answer. _How often?_

Instead, she took a deep breath and continued, “They say you mistrust every one of them, us, simply because we’re mages. And yet here you are, writing my letters because you successfully argued it was your fault they drowned in ink, and you’ve never given me the impression you treat any of us differently.”

“I might just hide all of my hateful sides,” he said doubtfully. “In all honesty, though, they have good reason to tell their stories. I—I wasn’t the nicest person to be around, and I still might not be.”

There was another pause, only interrupted by his quill scratching on the parchment as he took it up again to finish the sentence.

“You still don’t believe me, do you,” he picked up again after a while. “You know, we’ve met, what, two months ago? Three, at most? You’ve only gotten a glimpse of who I am—”

“The same could be said of me,” Imira interrupted him. He turned to look at her with renewed interest.

“I suppose so,” Cullen agreed slowly. “Though neither the things I’ve heard about you nor the ones I’ve seen would indicate you’re a completely different person underneath.”

“You’re awfully quick to trust,” she chided him, prompting another chuckle. “Maybe the real Cullen is somewhere in between, then.”

“So, where’s the real Imira, following that logic? Between all the heroic, good deeds I’ve heard of and the heroic and good person that I’ve met?”

_Heroic and good._ He was joking, of course, he must have, but something told her he was being serious. Unaware.

Blood on a dagger, her dagger, a last, desperate rattle, _please, please_ on cut vocal cords; the silence afterwards. The numbness, the excuses. Moira’s anger, so very well deserved: _I didn’t expect you to become a killer._ The way she saw to it that Imira was alone, even in company. Their fight that morning at the Conclave, _they’ll let you go, as if nothing happened. Do you think you’re not guilty? Do you really think you’re not the tiniest bit guilty?_

She’d been guilty. She still was. The Mark was proof of it, her only chance to make up for the suffering she’d caused. Everything else was a lie she lived to fool herself, and others. Him. 

“Somewhere else entirely,” she mumbled, and as she met his gaze, she felt the urge to tell him, so he could see her for who she really was. Suddenly, she wanted someone to know her. Trust her. Become a friend.

For the first time since she’d fled the Circle, she wanted the loneliness to end.

_Why is it you of all people?_


End file.
